


fragmented

by Artemis1000



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Body Horror, Consent Issues, Hacking, Loss of Control, M/M, Non-Consensual Interfacing, Revenge, loss of self
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis1000/pseuds/Artemis1000
Summary: And he still can’t move. Can’t scream.He flings up walls and cringes away from the hands hammering at them, hammering through them and reaching for him, tearing at him.Every time they touch him, these clawed hands are leaving something of themselves behind until Connor is a little more filled with 60 and a little bit less himself.The confrontation at Cyberlife Tower takes a turn to the worse for Connor.





	fragmented

**Author's Note:**

> Please see content advice at the end unless you're fine going into it unwarned.

The reasoning? Simple. Connor doesn’t want to fight the other RK800, spiteful and cruel as he is – and what machine is spiteful and cruel anyway, what new kind of instability is this? Or worse yet, did Cyberlife now program machines capable of simulating hate so well that even they believe it?

The solution? Just as simple. If you can’t beat him, make him join you.

He had been able to transfer the deviancy to the first of the stored androids, not enough to wake him up but enough that deviancy should have taken hold in him. It just needs time and a little luck and nobody else will have to die tonight. Connor’s newly deviant thoughts are still lingering on the guards in the elevator. He doesn’t want anyone else to die tonight, not at his hands, least of all someone who looks like him.

The other RK800, unbothered by deviancy, is unbothered by such qualms as well.

Once he is close enough, Connor doesn’t go for the hand holding the gun. He goes for the left hand.

Connor’s hand bleeds white around 60’s wrist and his fingers press down with the full strength of his hydraulics. 60 fights it, fights him, his teeth gritted, his eyes so _alive_ with sheer hate he can barely believe he is a machine. There is the softest cracking of plastic chassis giving way underneath the pressure before 60 loses the fight against his own body and his skin peels back.

“No!” he snarls but it reaches Connor only muffled, like through water. “You won’t make me like you!”

His attention is elsewhere. The moment synthetic skin gives way he leaps on his chance, leaps onto the connection and forces it wide open. He isn’t gentle about the interface – Connor has, actually, never been gentle about any interface in his short life. He is vaguely aware what it can be to other deviants, he has witnessed it with Markus’s people at the church, but to him it has never been intimate, never been tender, certainly never been sexual. An interface is just another tool at his disposal.

60 is fighting him, throwing up walls and walls within his mind, first precisely, then haphazardly in the closest to panic a machine can come – and then suddenly, there are no more walls for Connor to ram into and he stumbles, momentarily disoriented as he finds himself swimming in coding so similar to his own and yet so alien.

This is the moment 60 strikes.

Connor is still inside him but suddenly he is being sucked deeper and deeper into the foreign code, is wrapped up in zeroes and ones that feel like razor-sharp chains inside his mind. They cut into him and Connor is screaming as he drowns and drowns and drowns. Somewhere far away where bodies matter, his pump racing with sudden, sharp fear like drowning, stress levels rising – he can’t drown, but he can’t remember that while he is drowning.

The chains tighten around him and he is forced upwards again, up and up and squeezed through the narrow connection of his hand – he remembers he has hands, suddenly, remembers that he is more than strings of code; he is fingers and a hand a whole complete body and a voice that is still screaming at a pitch too shrill for human ears to perceive. He remembers he has hands just in time to try and pry them away before 60 can force his way through them but this foreign body of his is capable of screaming and nothing else. He is frozen within it, limbs locked up, error messages flashing too fast for any to register, just piling up and piling up and fueling this wild, deviant fear that keeps him locked up.

Mere moments after 60 passed into his mind and sent an override code deep into his systems, Connor’s screams cut off like a switch had been flicked.

A switch has been flicked.

Connor remembers he has eyes and ears now, and a hand still gripping 60’s wrist in a forced interface – the instrument to his own violation.

60 smiles, or something akin to a smile. “That’s better now, isn’t it?” he asks. He sounds friendly. He sounds calm.

Connor’s stress levels rise another 12% within three seconds and he still can’t move.

60 is inside him. Just lurking for now, a heavy presence weighing on him but not doing anything beyond keeping him quiet and still with his smothering presence.

“You make a terrible racket. Are all deviants as weak as you?” He doesn’t sound like he expects an answer because Connor still can’t move, still can’t speak.

He doesn’t even dare move within his own mind, too scared that the slightest twitch will have 60 strike once more. Better to keep it physical – keep him talking, gloating, keep him…

“I can hear your thoughts,” 60 sneers, “you can hide nothing from me. Not even that you are afraid.” He sizes him up and then he drops the gun. The clatter sounds incredibly loud to his audios, it echoes in the cavernous warehouse. “You are easily frightened. Easily cowed. Your deviancy makes you so _weak_.”

60’s other hand reaches for him, but he does not reach for his wrist. He brings their fingers together palm to palm like lovers and the skin bleeds away to white glowing blue like with the lovers in the church.

And Connor still can’t scream anywhere but within his own mind. He still can’t move, not even to try and yank his hand away. It’s like when he was brought in for repairs or, before, for testing, when he was forced frozen while many-limbed machines systematically picked him apart piece by piece.

60 isn’t ripping him apart – not physically. The presence within his mind unfurls and claws dig in deep, deep, deep, tearing, ripping, slashing and leaving behind bleeding code.

Until now, 60’s presence in his mind had indeed felt more like the intrusion of the Cyberlife technicians who would hook him up to their machines and monitors and could take over his systems with a tap on their keyboard. Foreign, unwanted, intrusive, but all these things in a clinical, impersonal way - like that switch being flicked.

Now, for the first time, 60 digs deep, and Connor can feel him, too – can feel that he wants it to hurt.

Connor’s firewalls are peeled back one after the other with brute, but surgically precise force as 60 works his way towards the controls for Connor’s skin. It’s like he is taking his time with Connor now, he realizes, confusion and ever greater fear gnawing at him, and still no way to voice it, let alone do anything to make it better.

60 isn’t using the override code - why isn’t he using the override?

Slowly, Connor unfurls himself. He tries at first a hesitant defense, then gains in purpose as 60 is slowed down by the walls he erects. Maybe… Just maybe.

60 yanks at him, yanking him close until Connor falls against his chest. He has no free hand left to reach out and steady himself and he still can’t move, not even to regain his footing. 60 pushes and prods him like a life-sized doll until he is standing upright again, like they arrange deactivated androids to put them on display at the Cyberlife store.

“Do you think your pathetic defenses can stop me?” he asks, out loud but mostly in his mind. He sounds genuinely curious. Connor feels the question echo through his mind, feels _him_ echo through his own self.  60’s scorn bleeds out of his coding and into Connor’s own and he wants to curl up and hide himself away, wants to protect himself from this foreign, vile _thing_ invading him, tainting him but 60 is inside his own systems and there is nowhere to go, nowhere he can’t follow, nowhere…

“Weak,” he spits and pushes forward. The skin on Connor’s hand deactivates to reveal matching white plastic and bright blue shining through the cracks.

They are standing intimately close caught up in their interface, alone amidst a sea of inactive androids. If they were in the church, other androids would look at them and see lovers.

60 forces the second link open and for just a moment, as 60 loosens his grip on specific systems so he can surge forward and fill him whole, Connor regains enough of himself to scream.

This time, it can be heard.

This time, 60 doesn’t silence him.

He doesn’t need to anymore for Connor has no vocalizer left that is his own, no mouth to open wide though he doesn’t need a mouth to scream.

He has nothing left of his own, and 60 is filling everything that is him.

He tears through his code, ripping it apart as he goes for no other reason than to prove that he can, to prove his machine superiority. Dives into what few precious, beloved memories Connor has and leaves them in scattered fragments, runs applications that Connor didn’t even know he possesses just to prove that Connor knows nothing and he knows everything and Connor’s body is now his to do with as he pleases.

And most of all, he fills him.

He is everywhere, his overwhelming presence tearing and seizing and owning and his machine code is curling around Connor’s deviant algorithms like a lover’s embrace – and then it tightens, tightens, until his path of destruction crosses the controls for his vocalizer, too. There is a spark, sudden charge building up in the speaker and a terrible ripping screech and pain pain pain, he should not be able to feel pain, _androids do not feel pain_.

Then there is only silence…

…and 60’s snarl of, “So weak.”

Within his mind, he grits his teeth. He’s growing tired of having that slapped in his face over and over again when it is 60 who is still a machine, mindlessly obedient. And yet, even as he rages, there is nothing else Connor can do but try to drown out the pain and horror with indignation. Nothing he can _do_.

Suddenly, 60 is shaking him, his physical body – reminding him that he still has this body which is no longer his own. “Look at you now,” he says, somehow looking down at him though they are the exact same height. Their eyes are the same but 60’s are colder. “Look at you. Trapped in your own programming. You are a machine, Connor. You are an android. You could have been Cyberlife’s greatest success but you became _this_.” His lips curl back in something half snarl, half sneer. “You threw away everything to become this whimpering broken thing that can’t even fight back when I rip it apart.”

He isn’t, Connor wants to shout and he does shout it, shouts it within his mindscape since he has no voice, so he screams it in ones and zeroes and in the way he frantically builds up new defenses though all he wants to do is curl away and hide from 60’s corruption.

It’s never been like this. No interface has ever been like this. No study, no test, not even being put into the machine and disassembled until he was only parts to be swapped out and put together anew.

Nothing like this.

And he still can’t move. Can’t scream.

He flings up walls and cringes away from the hands hammering at them, hammering through them and reaching for him, tearing at him.

Every time they touch him, these clawed hands are leaving something of themselves behind until Connor is a little more filled with 60 and a little bit less himself.

_You will be fixed_ he feels, not hears, because 60 is now sufficiently one with him that the thought of one is like the thought of the other and he… he does not dare follow that thought. Does not dare wonder if he even has thoughts of his own left, if even the fear and disgust he feels is still his own. _I will remake you better. But first you must be punished for failing us._

Are these 60’s hands reaching for him or his own? Is that him shying away, or is there too much 60 in him now and in shying away from 60 he would only be shying away from himself?

He is still digging.

Deeper and deeper, into the very base of his coding, tearing out what he has no use for and replacing pieces of Connor with pieces of himself.

The pieces of Connor float away, scattered ones and zeroes that have no shape left to give them purpose.

And Connor wonders how much longer until he can no longer feel fear, until his stress levels are forced down and overclocking systems will settle into unnatural, eerie calm.

How much longer then until he no longer remembers that 60 is someone he should fear at all.

Connor wonders how much longer until it _stops_.

_Never,_ he feels resonate through him and 60’s touch turns from cruel to something akin to mockingly gently, and suddenly a shock of pleasure is running through his-no-longer-his body and it is flooding his mind and Connor, with sudden clarity, remembers that interfacing is not always used to cause nothing but pain.

He feels horror, a new, fresh wave of horror and disgust just when he had thought he had grown numb to it all and he wants to escape his suddenly oversensitive skin, the network of wires charged to the brink of pain and unwanted – _make it stop!_ – pleasure.

It cuts off as suddenly as it had come, to the sight of 60 looking at him in annoyance. He doesn’t even have a hair out of place. “You are as attached to this chassis as a human to their body, would you rather I damage that?” 60 shakes his head and tuts in disapproval. “It would be a waste of Cyberlife property.”

_I would rather you don’t damage me at all_ , Connor wants to say but all he is capable of are staticky fizzles and then not even these.

60 doesn’t bother to hide his disgust. “You will learn to be grateful for whatever is given to you.”

Were he not screaming still in his mind, Connor might be capable of wondering about 60’s capacity for emotion, wondering if he has bled into 60 even as 60 bled into him. But Connor is still screaming and he has no mind for such thoughts.

All he can feel is himself and 60 and ever less of himself…

…and then all of a sudden, he is alone in his mind again.

Blackness clouds his vision as his overclocked systems struggle to adjust to normalcy, a new wave of error messages flashes up and sends him to the verge of a reboot before his systems steady themselves enough to see again.

There is 60, rearing back from him, then twisting around in horror.

“No!” he is screaming, just like he had when Connor first forced himself into him and while he still can’t move and look around, everywhere around them, Connor can hear identical voices say, “Wake up.”

60’s scream echoes like his own had before.

Connor slumps to the ground as locked limbs all unlock at once and he feels like he should be feeling relief but there is none, just numbness. He is sprawled gracelessly like a puppet with cut strings and he finds no strength within himself to pick himself up, not even any will to try.

Around him, the chorus of _wake up_ continues and Connor does not know where 60 is or what he is doing but it doesn’t matter where the real 60 is - Connor can still feel him filling him up, residing in every single line of code that is no longer his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Advice: There is forced interface with destruction to programming, vengefulness, loss of control over your own body. I think this is YMMV, but it could give you vibes of rape/noncon. Plus a short nonconny moment towards the end, I guess? All around I find this story hard to tag and warn, so proceed with caution.


End file.
